


Preparation

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gathering their thoughts before dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preparation

He stops her just before they make their way into the dinning room, catching her wrist (lightly, always lightly). Nothing is said but she knows what to do, falling into the same old patterns. She allows him to draw her away, to the small corridor just off to the left, where shadows and tapestries provide them with a sense of solitude unmarred by suspicion.

Sansa says nothing, allowing Petyr to take the lead in the conversation, but he can see the gears shifting between her eyes (sometimes he likes it pretend it is because he installed them; he knows he only observed them). Her face is a mask of demure concern, with only her smile betraying her. There is a hunger there, a need to relish and devour, that he _knows_ only he can see. Perhaps it’s the memory of those teeth leaving bruises along her neck, those perfect lips wrapped around him that allows him to see the edge.

“You know what to do?” he asks and she nods, her expression unchanged.

Petyr reaches out to brush a lock of hair behind one ear, his fingers lingering over the soft porcelain skin of her cheek. Sansa plays at being demur, looking at him from beneath her lashes, and allows him to kiss her.

When they break she sighs sweetly and holds him tight. Petyr rests his hands on the small of her back and listens closely to the rhythm of her heart—frantic, full of anticipation and excitement, just like his own. Her body is straight, almost rigid, coiled and poised for attack.

“You’ll do well,” he says in her ear, kissing at the lobe before pulling away. This time she doesn’t demure, doesn’t try to diminish herself. Instead she smiles at him again, this one unmistakably wicked and knowing.

“Of course,” she replies, her voice steady, as if the possibility of there being another outcome had never crossed her mind.

He ghosts his hands up and down her sides and has to force himself to stall them at her waist, to not let himself get too carried away. He splays his fingers across her hips and pictures the bruises that lie underneath, claims on her unmarred skin.

He focuses on these unseen marks in an effort to control himself from adding to them here and now. They had worked too hard and had been far too careful to lose it in the heat of a moment. Instead he kisses her forehead and draws her back into the main hall, her arm linked through his. He steadies himself, trying to cast off weakness with every step.

Sansa’s nails dig into his arm and the pain is welcome, a promise of things to come. He feels a similar dark smile cross his lips, one he is well-practiced at concealing.


End file.
